Green Eyes
by graceylovesspn
Summary: Tag to 12x09. Sam wakes up in prison one morning and can't remember what the colour green looks like. Maybe Dean can help him. Oneshot. Complete.


**Because the hellatus is taking it's toll on me and I need some brother feels.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, though I wish I did.**

Sam can't remember what green looks like.

He just woke up one nameless morning and can't remember. He sits in his favorite place, butt on the floor, in the middle of the length of his bed, back against the thin mattress, the metal frame digging uncomfortably into his back. He likes it this way, always on the verge of some deeper pain. It's something he can control, and it keeps him lucid and awake. He found out this technique the second week when he would stare at his feet and they would start floating away from him. That's when reality became mushy.

Like porridge he things, and laughs to himself. He never liked porridge. Didn't think he'd start living in it, in a way.

But this morning, when he opens his eyes and sits up in bed, slides out of the covers and leans his back against the metal frame, lowering himself on the floor, his mind suddenly blanks on the colour green.

It wasn't even his favourite colour. He didn't really have one. He was never one for colours, it was something that didn't matter to him. He never really noticed the importance of them, until all he could see was grey.

He stands up slowly, his long legs stiff. He has to sleep curled up. The bed isn't big enough for him. Neither were the motel beds he realizes. Sometimes, if he is sleeping, he can imagine he is in a motel room, scrunched onto the bed, Dean snoring on the bed next to him. The darkness makes it easy to imagine he is somewhere else.

Sam walks to the mirror, three feet from the foot of his bed, above the sink. He stares at himself for a long while, trying to focus on the colour of his eyes. Brown, he thinks. My eyes are brown. He doesn't want to forget the colour brown either.

He imagines the rainbow fading before him, each colouring disappearing before his eyes until he dreams in grey, lives in grey, fades away into grey.

It's quiet. Nothing like the cage, where all he knew was pain. He feels numb here, detached. Half the time he convinces himself this a dream, just to stay sane. At least in the cage he always knew, knew he was there for real. There was no escape, and pain was a poisonous lover at his side every night, but it kept him alive, alert, sharp.

He thinks back to Toni's basement, when he held that shard of glass to his neck, and then swiped his palm instead. He didn't decide to fake his death until he actually almost did kill himself. He eyes the mirror again, sees the glint of light off the glass. He tried shattering it, but couldn't. I guess other people before him had the same idea.

But green, he thinks, his mind wandering back to the matter at hand. He sits back down in his place on the floor, stretches his legs out in front of him. They just touch the other wall. He likes this, having a problem, something to focus his mind on. How would he usually deal with problems? Research.

He doesn't have any books to read, or internet sites to search, but he treats this like a case non the less. Green. The colour. What does he know about green? He knows the grass is green, or is it blue? No, the sky is blue. He thinks. He's pretty sure. What else is green? Vomit, sometimes.

Maybe he should make himself throw up. But then he remembers the term, 'vomit green,' and knows if he does remember green, he does not want to remember that shade. Shade. That's right, there were shades of green. Vomit green. Lime green. He doesn't remember limes, but he remembers lemon and he remembers yellow. The sun. Trees are green, he thinks. If only he could see outside. Or maybe have a calendar of trees. Would they let him?

Sam's tried talking to the guards. But he only gets grunts, or nothing at all. He craves it, human interaction. But he doesn't get it. Footsteps at night, patrols, the clinking of keys, that's what he has to know other people exist in the place. But they are all the wrong people.

Dean. He doesn't think about Dean much anymore. He did in the beginning, it was the thing that kept him going, but lately it has just made him sad. He doesn't want to imagine Dean in a place like this, alone with his thoughts. Without him. He knows he is important to Dean's survival, hell, he's sold his soul just to get Sam back, killed himself in a heartbeat. But this time Dean can't do anything to save Sam. Because Sam isn't in trouble, just stuck. So damn stuck.

Sam shifts when he hears someone coming, he crawls to the opening in the door, anticipating meal time. His tray comes crashing through. Hell, even the food is grey. He puts it on his bed and doesn't think about it. He instead presses his head against the door and listens. After he gets breakfast is when guards change shifts, and sometimes they talk. Sam craves the tone of conversation, the lilt of words on someone else's tongue. Anything besides the own jabbering in his head.

"How's the prisoner on C-block?" Sam hears a rough voice, he presses himself closer to the door.

"Cocky as usual. Douche-bag won't stop humming half the time. I have it in my head to clobber him."

"He's too pretty to be clobbered. You've seen him right?"

"Sorry, Jim, don't swing that way."

"He better be lucky his ass is in solitary, pretty guy like that, wouldn't last long in prison."

A short laugh. A shuffle of feet. Then.

Silence. Again.

But Sam leans back. Something is familiar. Something. Oh, he knows. He has heard that kind of talk before. At bars. Out of the lips of pretty girls' mouths, eyeing his brother, wanting him. Pretty eyes, they'd call him, lure him over to their table, into the backseat of their cars.

Sam stops. Pretty eyes. Oh yeah. Dean's eyes were green weren't they?

He closes his eyes, breaks the pact to himself to not think about Dean. Instead Sam drudges the memory of his brother up, lets his mind fill with Dean. First the smell of leather, gun oil. Them, the rumble of the Impala, the flashes of flannel. Then his little smirk, the way he says, "Sammy." Then the eyes. The green. Flashing, tilting onto hazel. Bright. Young. Restless. Filled with grief. With sadness. Covered over with jokes, sex, alcohol. Eyes bleary, just waking up. Eyes teary, telling about his time in hell. Eyes soft, comforting Sam. Eyes relief, hugging Sam. Knowing Sam is ok. And in all that, in all that Sam sees in Dean's eyes, he remembers. Remembers green. And not just any green. _Dean_ green. The only shade he wanted to remember.

Sam closes his eyes, breathes out a sigh of relief. He isn't worried anymore. He can forget the rainbow, have the colours fade away one by one. But he won't ever forget green. He can't forget Dean's eyes. Ever.

And he knows, Sam knows, after 34 years of looking into those eyes, he'll see them again.


End file.
